Love and the Logical
by randomlvr1
Summary: Ten situations in which America just does not make sense, and Arthur deals. From the absolutely ridiculous to the downright exasperating, Arthur learns that to love doesn't necessarily mean to make logic.


**alien vs. faerie**

O

o

.

_Just a little fluff to get out of my system. Like how broccoli and veggies are supposed to be detoxes? BE GONE FANGIRL WITHIN! *waves garlic around*_

* * *

_I don't understand . . ._

* * *

As a general rule, England surmised, America simply did not make sense.

"_What_ did you find?" England found himself asking one unusually balmy August day.

The year was 1947**(1)**. Or that's what the newspaper in front of him claimed. But that date could very well be as fake as the rest of the paper America had handed to him with a mischievous wink. It may have looked authentic enough, but who had ever heard of mysterious flying objects falling out of the sky? Or 'UFO's, as America had called them.

"An alien!" America repeated in a hushed tone of urgency and glanced around with suspicious eyes as if he expected some pedestrian to come waltzing through England's kitchen.

England threw the folder with paper attached (which had the words 'highly classified' stamped mockingly on the front) down with an aggravated huff and stared his guest down with a highly leveling look. "I can't believe you would jump across the pond to ruin my afternoon with ridiculous news like _that._ Since you seem so unaware of your own language, let me inform you that anyone who lives in your country but is not a citizen is considered-"

"No, not that kind of alien!" The exuberant America pointed to the bold headline on the table with an excited finger. The words 'crash' and 'unknown' jumped out. "The kind that comes in flying saucers! UFOs! Life from the cosmos! Can you believe it, Artie?"

"No, I don't," England said with a scowl as he took a tight-lipped sip of his lukewarm tea.

The lad has just fooled himself into believing something he wants to hear, the once-guardian told himself. Knowing America as well as he did, England was well aware of how brightly the stars in the night sky reflected in his wide eyes. And ever since those damned Wright brothers had come around and took man into the sky, America had grown increasingly preposterous and optimistic. But the only one paying for American's folly was England, who would be more often than not dragged into one messy escapade or another. Like now.

The high altitudes must have contained some kind of virus that would lower one's IQ to that of a bird's, he concluded with a scoff.

"Why don't you go to someone else and tell them of your fascinating find? I'm sure the world is dying to hear your news." With this, England would be setting a plague on the world. It seemed like a small price to pay in order to preserve the sanctity of his own house. He paused thoughtfully and then added, "I'm sure France would be particularly interested. You should drop by his house."

"Pfft, I know right? The world has a right to know! But my boss won't let me tell anyone," America lamented, seemingly ignoring the fact that he was, in fact, telling _someone_. He shot the Englishman a look that was half accusatory and half wounded. "And the one person I tell can't even appreciate it."

But before England could decide whether it was more of an honor or burden to be the sole confident of the New World's superpower, the younger blonde's face lit up with boundless enthusiasm. "But I'll prove it to you!" he suddenly exclaimed with a level of excitement that made England fear for his own sanity.

Roughly, America grabbed his companion's hand and dragged him out the door, towards the American's posh Cadillac **(2)** and his incessant running of the mouth never pausing for, seemingly, unnecessary breath. As frivolous as ever, England sneered as the other let go of his hand in favor of fumbling with the lock on the car.

"Tony! Tooony!" America called out as he dove over the front seat into the back. The former guardian watched in vague amusement and strong impatience through the tinted windows as the younger nation searched under seat cushions and in compartments for someone (or perhaps some_thing_) that was obviously not there. "Where'd you go, little buddy? Don't be shy - the things on the old man's face aren't as bad as they look!"

Any vague amusement shriveled up immediately as the Englishman stomped forward and wretched the back door to the expensive car with intentions of violence and regaining his dignity. America tumbled out of the vehicle ungracefully headfirst, and looked up to face the pair of scrunched up monsters he had been just trying to undermine. From this position and angle, the young optimist could not blame his new extraterrestrial friend for wanting to avoid them.

"Heh," America laughed weakly, not bothering to move from his awkward position half in the car and half on the gravel. "When you give me that 'I'm-so-pissed-I-could-inflict-bodily-harm-on-your-gorgeous-body-and-not-feel-guilty' look, your brows come together to make one, massive uni-"

"_That is enough!_" Without any tenderness, England grabbed the upper arm of the heavy slab of fat before him and tugged until the American was completely out of the car. "It is one thing for you to come and bother me in my leisure time, but it's completely another when you insult the host that so graciously invited you in, against their better judgment, for the sake of hospitality! You didn't even call ahead, so don't you start with that rubbish about how bad a host I am if you insist on being such a bad guest-_and just what are you laughing at?_"

"The way you say 'leisure' is funny **(3)**," America giggled from the ground. "It sounds French or something."

England gawked incredulously. Had he taught this lad _no_ common sense whatsoever? (Though, the more accurate explanation would be that America had just never been born with a capacity for logic to begin with.) Comparing England to his long-since rival was just _begging_ for a kick to the stomach. Which is what he delivered swiftly before storming away with curses under his breath. "Bloody frog and his blasted influences!"

The sorely tested nation had hoped he had left the other nation in a good enough state of shock (since _nothing_ could hurt that lad, with the mental capacity and durability of a rock) to make it to his front door and double lock him out. He thought he should have known better than to be optimistic when dealing with a bleak, asinine situation with America when the nation tackled him from behind with a crushing embrace that knocked them both into the dirt. He also should have known better than to wear nice clothes, he grieved with a painful groan.

"Don't go yet! You haven't met Tony!" America pleaded shamelessly. When England tried to shake the other off, he found that he was quite well trapped by the other's hold.

In spiteful honesty, England blurted the first words that tumbled from his lips. "Don't you see, you insufferable buffoon? There _is_ no UFO! No alien! And most certainly no 'Tony'!" He would have thrown up his arms in surrender by this point if space restrictions had allowed. "I don't see how you can believe in something as outlandish as flying plates delivering little green men when you can't even see the magic right in front of your eyes!"

His statement was quite literal, given that several brave faeries had ventured out of the safety of the forests to see what had disturbed their otherwise peaceful afternoon. One, sweet as biscuits and obviously new to these parts of the woods, was trying to ask him what was happening. He had the urge to assure her, _"Oh, nothing out of ordinary. A patient has just escaped from the psychiatric ward and walked across water to stumble into my house. No worries - a couple punches should send him back to his place,"_ but, seeing as the other nation could not see her, it wouldn't have done anything for his bid for sanity.

Regretfully, it left him with no choice but to blow the faerie away with a puff of air. She flew back to her giggling friends, a wing bent and looking defeated. England made a note to apologize later but currently blamed America for his guilt. In fact, there were many things to be blamed on America, but it would be best to start with their current situation.

It was then that England realized that the lad had gone still. A part of the older nation wondered if he'd gone a bit too far in being so blatantly harsh with his opinion. Most of his conscious agreed that the naive nation needed to be put down in his delusions before they manifested into something impulsive, unwise, or otherwise humiliating that would compromise the other's already compromised image as a mature adult.

But children will be children, and you couldn't stop children from dreaming any more than you could stop America from _being_ a child.

"You're talking 'bout those imaginary friends again, aren't you? Gee whiz old man." With a frown that wasn't so much a frown as it was a pout, America pushed himself off of the other nation and jumped to his feet with hands in his pockets coolly. England could safely say that the look that America was giving him was borderline condescending and unarguably exasperated. "I gave you the number to that shrink, right? A Dr. Sidney Freedman**(4)**? Ring him up - he can really do some wonders."

"But Tony isn't like one of your imaginary friends!" The overgrown child declared with a wild spark of electricity behind his spectacles, one that bothered and captivated England all the same - how could a nation nearly two centuries old still believe so wholly and still not see the faeries? Absolutely incredible. "He's real and I have _science_ to back it up! And if the little guy ever gets over the trauma of seeing your face, I'll show you how _not imaginary_ he is!"

_Then your 'science' needs a reality check_, England thought dourly. It really wasn't fair for America to mock him about his mythical creatures if he was going to turn around and speak of _imaginary_ creatures of his own creation. Perhaps it was just to mock him. But, then again, it had always been like this. Looking at the same picture and seeing different things, but being too stubborn to listen to the other's interpretation.

But was it England's fault that America just couldn't see things as they were? Pentagrams were pentagrams and crescents were crescents, but they would always be a frontier to be explored to the youthful nation of hopes. There was nothing to be done about it, the British nation maintained.

America offered him a hand up sincerely, but England sourly slapped it away and staggered to his feet. Huh. He was amazed he still had full use of his limbs after being crushed by at least three hundred pounds of _dense_ mass.

"I never said Tony was a creature like the fae. If he was, I'm sure we would be quite chummy with each other by now." England brushed off his dusty clothes with deliberate motions, meeting America's gaze sharply. "I'm merely giving you the consideration you give me when I speak of my existent friends, thank you very much. What's that golden rule again? 'Do unto others as you wish others to do unto you'?"

England, the dignified gentleman he was, had been planning to leave it at that and then depart dramatically to give the other nation something to think about. Hopefully, sometime between this encounter and their next meeting, America would finally digest the lesson he had been tried to taught. Perhaps, if he was phenomenally lucky, the spoiled prat might even realize how much of a wanker he was and beg his former-mentor for some forgiveness. But he shouldn't get his hopes up - this _was_ America he was talking about.

Note to self - never again hope for anything _vaguely_ positive when dealing with America.

"_Fucking limey_**(5)**."

And, just like that, his dramatic effect was ruined as he turned on his heel and made for America with a fist already raised. Oh, bugger it all - violence was always considerably more satisfying anyway.

"What did you just call me, you damned yank?" England demanded, making short of the distance between them quickly with his hurried steps. But the arse didn't even have the courage to look at him after his snide insult! America was looking around frantically, probably trying to look innocent but looking more idiotic by each enthusiastic swivel of the head.

"Tony!" America exclaimed animatedly. "Did you hear him? The little guy's around here somewhere! I knew you wouldn't let me down, buddy! Tony! Where are you? Toooo-"

It was at this point that England's knuckles had a not-so-pleasant meeting with America's mouth - strategically placed so that the sodding prat would just _shut up_. And America, in a show of masculine bravado, hit England back because England had punched first, and that obviously meant _he_ had started it which made attacking his former guardian a completely acceptable act.

The pair were too immersed in proving their own point to hear the rustle of bushes next to them.

* * *

_. . . how you can see little green men zipping around your head . . ._

_

* * *

_

"The fucking limey will taste my plasma phaser**(6)**." Wearing the eternally shocked expression that was common to his species, _Zarqm_ (or 'Tony', as he was referred to by his host) set his hand-held weapon to 'kill' and aimed at the unmistakable face with thick fur over his eyes.

To hell (and he sent his regards to his Earth-dwelling host who had taken it upon him to teach him so much new vocabulary of the profane nature) with his mission - he was stranded on this wet and blistering new planet for an indefinite amount of time, and he didn't think this superiors understood the types of shit he had to deal with daily. Fuck objectiveness - Tony had been intrigued by his kindly and informative host, but his host's acquaintance did not agree with him for a strange, unknown reason. He supposed he just had an instinctive _feeling_ about this other humanoid.

The long, thin finger on the trigger itched, but he stalled for a moment. His host and the unidentified limey were rolling across the flora growing on the ground, which made aiming for the one with green irises difficult if he wanted to spare his host. He wished they would stop their friendship ritual (though it looked more like the combat styles of his primitive planet) so he could put an end to the source of his abhorrence.

"Just _what_ do you think you're doing, good sir?"

Barely flinching, Tony turned to the little orb of light floating above his phaser that he hadn't noticed before. If he focused his vision, he could make out a pair of appendages used for flight flapping on the back of the new creature and a body very similar to the species his host belong to. He made a note to check his logs for the name of this species later.

"I have a mission to complete, earth dweller. It is of none of your concern," he said in a metallic voice. Lying was another fascinating concept his host had taught him.

The single orb of light was joined by several others, all flaring bright colors that were a universal display of aggravation. "Well, to me it seems like you're about to do some harm to our friend over there. Who is, by the way, kicking your friend's _arse_."

Unconcerned by the creatures, Tony pulled the trigger. He waited for the quiet hum of energy and red laser beam, but it never came. Tony was once again intrigued by the floating beings.

"It's rude to ignore a lady." The first orb landed on the flat top of his weapon and tapped it casually with one walking limb. Several more orbs floated into view as the leading flying creature's mouth turned down. "Look, we don't care who or _what_ you are. We don't want to hurt you. We don't even care that you came with that loud-mouthed one that causes our friend so much trouble, but if you're going to hurt our Arthur, we have a problem."

If Tony had expression capabilities, he was sure his eyes would be slits now. That was this culture's equivalence of accusation and distrust, correct? "In my culture, disarming someone is a challenge. Because I am reasonable and cannot expect simple-minded earthlings to know of my customs, I will overlook it if you leave."

The illuminating creature put both hands up, palms up, and curled in its fingers several times. "Bring it on, pothead**(7)**."

* * *

_. . . but you can never see the faeries flipping you off right under your nose._

_

* * *

_

**a/n -** ':D What can I say? I can't keep my greedy little hands off these (SEXY) guys . . . I seriously doubt you mind, though. I think the general Hetalia populous will agree with more USUK shit. And if you're one that doesn't, you really shouldn't be getting your panties in a bunch by reading this, capish?

I'm planning ten chapters (because my OCD wants nice, easy to count sets of five or ten). Some will be light-hearted, like this one, some will be ridiculous, some will be sad, and some will be cute. Hopefully, you'll stick with me to the end and I'll hopefully give you the same consideration. '8D

**notes -  
(1)** _" The year was 1947."_ - The Roswell Incident. If you haven't heard of it, then you quite honestly live under a rock in Russia. As a refresher, it's the one where they found some debris in the middle of New Mexico. The army claims it was a surveillance balloon, and most of America maintains that 'it's all a conspiracy, _man!_'  
**(2)**_". . . posh Cadillac."_ - I'm not sure how elite Cadillacs were back then (daddies aren't quite reliable for legit answers, am I right?), but Cadillacs just _scream_ American to me. Like, ten-gallon hats and alligator-leather (;A;) cowboy boots kind of America.  
**(3)** "_The way you say 'leisure' is funny."_ - I confess - I was watching Eddie Izzard while writing this. I don't know if the British actually say it like that, but I just couldn't pass it up.  
**(4)** _"A Dr. Sidney Freedman?"_ - If you know who this is, you get rights to my first child. And a special shout-out. And, if I'm in the mood, perhaps even a gift.  
**(5)** _"Fucking limey."_ - For those of you who don't read the manga (obsessively, like myself), then this doesn't make sense. It's like Tony's pet name for Arthur.  
**(6) **_". . . my plasma phaser."_ - I couldn't resist the Star Trek reference. Any other little Trekkies out there? BD  
**(7)** _"Bring it on, pothead."_ - Heh, you see, it's supposed to be a joke. You know, since Tony's eyes are, like, the size of the moon (another irrelevant reference!) and dilated pupils are a sign of being high. _I_ thought it was funny, anyway . . .

Oh, and I know how much trouble I had with names starting off in this fandom. So, though I seriously doubt anyone will need this or even read down this far, America's 'human' name is Alfred and England's is Arthur. So now that we have that cleared up . . .

All my love,  
Tammy-wa


End file.
